Divorced, my husband threw an old pillow at me with a sneer. When I unzipped it to wash it, I was stunned by what was inside…
Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the very first day I became his wife, I grew accustomed to his cold words and indifferent glances. Héctor was never violent or loud, but his apathy drained me, little by little, until my heart felt hollow.
After our wedding, we moved into his parents’ house in a neighborhood in Mexico City.
Every morning, I woke up early to cook, do the laundry, and clean.
Every evening, I sat waiting for him to come home, only to hear the same dismissive words:
“Yeah, I already ate.”
I often wondered if this marriage was any different from simply being a tenant. I tried to build, I tried to love, but all I received in return was an empty silence I could never fill.
One day, Héctor came home with his usual blank expression.
He sat across from me, placed a stack of papers on the table, and said in a flat voice:
“Sign it. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”
I froze. Deep down, I wasn’t surprised. With tears stinging my eyes, I picked up the pen with trembling hands. Memories came rushing back—nights waiting at the dinner table, the lonely hours enduring stomachaches in the dark, the endless ache of being unseen. Each one felt like a wound reopening.
After signing, I began to pack my things.
There was nothing in that house that was truly mine, except for a few clothes and the old pillow I always slept with.
As I pulled my suitcase toward the door, Héctor tossed the pillow at me, his voice dripping with mockery:
“Take it and wash it. It’s probably about to fall apart.”
I caught the pillow, my heart tightening. It was indeed old—the pillowcase was faded, yellowed in places, and torn at the seams.
That pillow had followed me from my mother’s home in a small town in Oaxaca, where I grew up, to university in the city. Later, it came with me into marriage. I couldn’t sleep without it. Héctor used to complain about it often, but I never gave it up.
I left his house in silence.
Back in my rented room, I sat staring at the pillow, still hearing his sarcastic words. Wanting to at least rest peacefully that night, I decided to remove the pillowcase and wash it.
But as I unzipped it, I felt something strange. There was a hard lump hidden inside the soft cotton filling. My hand froze. Carefully, I reached in and pulled out a small bundle, neatly wrapped in a nylon bag.
My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside was a thick stack of 500-peso bills and a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded the note. The handwriting was instantly familiar—shaky, but unmistakably my mother’s:
“My daughter, this is the money I saved for you in case of hardship. I hid it in the pillow because I feared you’d be too proud to accept it. No matter what, don’t suffer for a man, my dear. I love you.”
Tears fell freely, blotting the yellowed paper. My mind flashed back to my wedding day. My mother had handed me the pillow, smiling as she said it was very soft and would help me sleep well.
I laughed and replied, “You’re getting old, Mom. What a funny thing to think. Héctor and I will be happy.”
She had only smiled again, though her eyes held a distant sadness I didn’t recognize back then.
Now I pressed the pillow to my chest, feeling as though my mother was right beside me, stroking my hair and whispering comfort.
She had always known. She had always understood how much her daughter could suffer if she chose the wrong man. And she had quietly prepared a safety net for me—not riches, but enough to keep me from despair.
That night, I lay on the hard bed of my rented room, clutching the pillow close as tears soaked the fabric.
But this time, I wasn’t crying for Héctor.
I was crying because I loved my mother.
Because I felt grateful. Because I realized I still had somewhere to return to, someone who loved me, and a whole wide world still waiting to welcome me.
The next morning, I carefully folded the pillow and placed it in my suitcase. I told myself I would rent a smaller room, closer to my job. I would send more money to my mother. And I would live a life where I no longer trembled at a man’s cold words.
I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled faintly.
This woman, with swollen eyes, would now live for herself, for her aging mother back home, and for all the dreams she had left unfinished.
That marriage, that old pillow, that sneer—it was all just the end of one sad chapter.
My life still had many pages left to be written, and I would write them with my own resilient hands.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.